Surviving the Winter
by VenusJay
Summary: The truck lights burn hot into the skin of his neck as he stoops in the shallow grave. Further, they tell him. Much further. He digs further. They instruct the soldier to climb in, one hand slipping with no friction until at last it lays in the makeshift cryofreeze.
1. Chapter 1

"This would be a whole lot easier if you would keep still," Steve grumbled as he wet the tip of the graphite against his tongue. The smooth biting flavour was so familiar to him now, almost as familiar as the fine features he marked onto the paper.

"Well, unless you want to starve you best hope I don't stand still for the rest of my life."

Unwrapping the cold cuts Bucky laid two plates on the counter, placing a thick cut slice of bread on each.

"Marge or not," he asked, sizing up their meagre remains.

"Hell, I'm not driving," Steve chuckled and Bucky shook his head. He spread twice the butter onto Steve's slice, leaving his own.

"Hey," Steve chastised with a look but softened when Bucky shrugged.

"I could do with a leaner diet," he joked and patted his almost concave stomach. "Gotta keep fit for the dames at the dance hall. Go on," he said handing over the plate. Balancing it in one hand he moved aside his scattered pencils so Bucky could join him on the bed. They ate in silence, the only sound between them was Steve's laboured breathing.

"You goin' dancing tonight," he asked eventually, licking the last few crumbs from his fingers though they tasted of charcoal.

"Why, Stevie? Feel like a dance?"

"No," he replied brushing his hair aside. "Just wondering."

"How's your lungs, buddy?"

"Still there last time I checked."

Bucky didn't say anything but took both of their plates to put in the sink.

"I have something for you."

Bucky hummed to himself as he cleaned.

"What was that?"

Steve reached into his pocket before tossing it to him. Bucky missed and stooped down to pick it up.

"Stevie, where'd you get this?"

"Sold a drawing. Some old guy wanted me to draw his wife. Not bah, huh?"

Bucky turned the fifty cents in his hand.

"What should we do with it?"

"We're keeping it."

"Oh come on Buck. We could go to the movies! See the new picture."

"You still need your medicine."

"Forget the medicine, Buck. I'm fine. All I'm in need of is a bit of fun. What do you say?"

"Whatever, Stevie. It's your money," he said quietly, tossing it back onto the bed. Steve realised then his own selfishness. Bucky spent every dime he had on looking after them both and here he was complaining about needing some fun.

"I didn't mean I don't have fun Bucky. I just meant-"

"Yeah, kiddo. I get it. But you heard them, the war is barely even starting. And we gotta have something keeping us going."

"But when we get enlisted we won't have to worry. Think of the money we'll have then," Steve assured him. Bucky shrugged.

"I'm not so keen to be getting shot at for a dollar Stevie. Heck I could do that being a target at a fair," he quipped, leaning back against the counter.

"Alright, we'll keep it."

"C'mon now. You don't have to. I was just thinking out loud is all. You earned it so you spend it how you want to," he said. He rejoined Steve on the bed, stretching out in the small space not occupied by paper and pencils. It wasn't long before Steve could hear the even huffs of breathe that meant Bucky had fallen asleep. He could see the cuts and scrapes of the scrapyard littering Bucky's arms, the freckles etched by the long hours in the sun. He traced out the almost button nose with the charcoal Bucky had given him. Another drawing to match the many others of his best friend. They had no camera so Bucky always appreciated having something to look back on. He once told Steve if it weren't for the drawings of them he would feel like he was trapped in a time loop.

He stayed up a while longer before packing everything away under the bed. He pulled off Bucky's shoes and socks and threw the scratchy blankets over them both.


	2. Chapter 2

"We have a record player, do you?"

"Record player? Doll, I'd be grateful for a record. Besides, what would I be doing with a record player save listening to all the croonies. Music is for dancing," he fixed the button on his cuff, the thread starting to unravel.

"But if you had a record player we could come over sometime," she said with wide eyes, the slight tilt of her head that Bucky knew all women did on purpose.

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm."

"Well maybe we could swing by your place sometime, for a little swing," he smiled.

"We?"

Bucky grimaced at the quirk of her eyebrow, his eyes following hers to where her friend stood beside Steve. Coat folded neatly over her crossed arms, she tapped her foot and stared straight at them speaking in that tilt of the head code. She could at least be a decent person and not treat him like an ant.

"My place is small. Real small. Only enough room for one more," she teased.

"Well I mustn't be too great at measuring because as far as I can see Steve takes a heck of a lot less room than me. But hey," he said casually. "Don't feel bad, you're not the only loser with no room for a big heart."

"Who are you calling a loser," she called after him angrily, drawing attention from the few other patrons.

"Come on Steve. This joint is eating on me," he tipped his hat to the young girl looking with confusion to her friend.

"Are you coming with us," she asked Bucky, ignoring the signals of her friend.

"Sorry, not tonight doll. Real shame too," he whispered in her ear. "Smart girl like you I bet I could have learned something interesting."

He felt Steve rolling his eyes.

"Buck, we going?"

"Yeah buddy," he finished the drink in his hand and followed Steve through the tables to the door. The cool air was a welcome chill on his face. He worried for the change in the weather though. Each winter seemed to get tougher than the last. Their walk along the promenade gave him time to organise things in his mind. If he took the later shift that would give them enough to have more wood for the burner. He could probably get some corrugated iron from the scrap, pin it so the draft wasn't so bad. Then there was Mrs Havisham at Crescent who he could probably persuade to give him some discount cloth.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah."

They turned into the street of their apartment block.

"If you wanted to go with them, I wouldn't have minded."

"Why would I want to go and listen to records with a loser like that?"

Steve laughed before turning away.

"Steve?"

"Seriously Buck, if you think you're sparing my feelings or something, it doesn't change anything. I know you've got my back but I don't want to be more of a burden than I already am."

Bucky watched as Steve leant against the brick gable, clearly out of breath from the cold walk back.

"Hey bud, don't be like that. If anything I'm the burden on you Stevie. If you weren't making me behave, hell I'd be dead in a ditch someplace."

"Oh come on Buck-"

"Get inside before we both freeze."

Steve sighed and climbed the stairs two at a time.

'Always trying to prove something,' Bucky thought to himself and followed.


	3. Chapter 3

It must have been around six. Everything surrounding faded gradually into vignette, navy touching the corners first. Night soon followed. It posed difficulty for the soldiers as they carried out menial tasks; each twist of tent wire and button released from the loop was fraught with the difficulty of darkness and dead tired arms. Except for one who sat patiently in the main tent. His name is irrelevant to them when they beckon him, push him, prod him. They make him stand. They make it sit. It sits without determination, without restraint and without question.

The asset had completed its work, the targets eliminated. All through the mountain pass lay the evidence of its destructive power. Hydra were suceeding. The only task left was to return the Soldier to the cryofreeze unit; to wipe him clean so that it could begin afresh. Written in its face were worry lines and a vague look of confusion. Those in charge of him gathered around him, curious and fearful.

They are too far from the lab. Much too far. And now that the work is finished and the blood seeps into the surrounding snow, they finally have the opportunity to sit down and consider what a grave situation this is. To many it would seem grave that they are washing down a living corpse or perhaps that there are no sausages left from breakfast in the morning. These are grave things indeed. Instead they realise that they are tasked with a volatile weapon that spreads beyond the realm of unstoppable and find it particularly grave. They discuss it in hushed whispers. They put it in the corner and stay back. They have an idea.

The Soldier does not recoil at their touch, does not flinch at their rough handling. He follows orders and step after step behind them it trails into the wooded clearing and begins to dig. Layer after layer of the crisp snow comes away in his hands, one shining silver and the other burning red. They light up cigarettes around him.

 _Bad for Asthma._

The truck lights burn hot into the skin of his neck as he stoops in the shallow grave. Further, they tell him. Much further. He digs further. They instruct the soldier to climb in, one hand slipping with no friction until at last it lays in the makeshift cryofreeze. There is no conversation as they work then, aside from an order not to look at them. The Soldier closes his eyes but his eyes twitch with each new shovel of snow and pine needles tossed on top of him. It is cold and comfortable and awful. Sleep starts to seep through the groundwater towards him, pulling down and down until the familiar chill cascades through his bones.

Underneath the ice and chill, Bucky Barnes dreams of Brooklyn. There are wide open streets with twisting back alleys. Each one encounters a new laugh, a biting line of 'punk' and a friendly smile. He takes his time there, watching as the frost creeps in through the door of their apartment. He would light a fire to keep that chill away but Stevie's asthma has been bad this Winter. Smoke from the fire would be bad. Instead they burrow under the blankets, layers and layers of white and cover them head to toe. It leaves Bucky breatheless and Stevie gets the medicine for him. Stevie doesn't need it no more, not with his fancy new lungs.

He feels safe here. He is surprised he feels at all. His chattering lips taunt him as Steve asks him what is wrong. 'Hail Hydra' is all he can see. Steve looks at him in disgust, sketching quickly in his notepad. Bucky dressed in Uniform, swaztika prominent on his arm. He tries to rip it off, to tell Steve there is a mistake.

He is no Nazi. He is Seargent Barnes of 107th division. Steve only shakes his head and Bucky cannot bear to have Steve disappointed in him. He tears at the patch on his clothing, ripping it away and taking some flesh with it. He rips through muscle, right down to the bone. Steve only dips a brush in the blood to paint in the red colouring. He begs Steve to understand. Steve tells him Bucky must leave.

 _No, not without you._

Everything begins to grow bright, the white taking over. He reaches out but finds he has only one arm. Blood flows from the open wound of his arm but at least it is warm. He calls for Steve. The white takes his dream from him. There are voices. He must obey. They are rough as they brush the snow aside from his face. They are jarring when they pull him from the ditch. They hurt him when they wipe him down with towels, dress him in unfamiliar clothes. They give him a gun. They give him a mission.

Kill Captain America.


End file.
